


The Flash, the Heat, and the Roar

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Johnlock Trope Challenge [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit poetic, Challenge Response, First Time, Johnlock Trope Challenge, M/M, One Shot, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sex, Tropes, Virgin Sherlock, can't wait another moment we almost died must have sex now, narrow escape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>But death had just breathed down the back of their necks, singeing them, leaving behind bloody palms and smoke in their hair. Now they moved at the same time, reaching out, fingers grasping clothing and pulling hard, lips meeting, desperately tasting, a slow dance backwards across the flat to Sherlock’s dark bedroom. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>For Day 28 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: Glad-to-be-alive Sex (aka Narrow Escape Sex)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flash, the Heat, and the Roar

There was the flash and the heat and the roar, a force blasting against their backs, tossing them like rag dolls, the impact of the ground, then silence. The ringing in the ears started next, high-pitched, without direction, the world tilting, finally righting, feet running by, hands pulling them up, insistent, guiding them away. Still dazed, Sherlock cast a glance over his shoulder at the cause: a car bomb, right outside the ambassador’s gated home.

If he and John had been 20 steps closer, they might have had their heads severed by debris or limbs blown off. They had just finished an interview with the ambassador, were comparing notes when the explosion ripped through the quiet tree-lined street, triggering a cacophony of car alarms and oily flames and smoke and green leaves fluttering down. Sherlock doubted they were the intended targets; the ambassador had been receiving death threats for weeks. Their timing was just extremely unfortunate.

Now there were sirens and squawking radios and shock blankets, bright lights shone into their eyes by medics and questions from the police, finally released, late. Sherlock looked at his hands as they rode silently in the cab back to Baker Street. His palms were lined with shallow abrasions, his arms and knees ached from hitting the pavement. But it could have been so much worse.

He glanced at John, and their eyes met, the same thought passing between them: _That was too close._

John unlocked the door, a familiar numbness sitting in his chest, traces of shock and burnt-out adrenaline. He knew this detached feeling, knew it would eventually fade only to wend its way into nightmares. He watched his own hand on the banister as he climbed the stairs, saw it lift, then fall again, oddly steady, curving around the dark wood.

He took off his jacket, hung it behind the door, resurfacing only when he felt a cool glass pressed into his hand. Scotch. He took a drink, the fumes warming his throat and mouth.

Sherlock took a long swallow then touched a knuckle to the scar on his bottom lip, his hand still curled tightly around the glass. They threw back their drinks and their eyes fell on each other.

Seconds passed, and they decided, wordlessly. No more waiting, no stopping point this time. They would have each other, in full. Now.

A month ago there had been a kiss -- sweet, short, testing, completely unexpected -- one late night on the sofa, the telly on in the background, a flickering light in the dark, a smile turning to a gaze, a leaning in, unfolding almost like a sigh… In the following days their hunger had grown rapidly, hands more greedy, mouths bolder, the sheets tangled, pillows dampened with exertion. So close, they had come so close, but there had been a shared hesitation, uncertainty about taking the last intimate leap.

But death had just breathed down the back of their necks, singeing them, leaving behind bloody palms and smoke in their hair.

Now they moved at the same time, reaching out, fingers grasping clothing and pulling hard, lips meeting, desperately tasting, a slow dance backwards across the flat to Sherlock’s dark bedroom, buttons undone, fabric sliding across shoulders and down forearms and past wrists, zippers freed, hips exposed, hands sweeping down, stroking, whispers of _I want you._

They sank to the bed, high above the street, stripped bare, raw boned, John pressing Sherlock down on the mattress, his hand going to the nightstand drawer, finding the bottle he bought, just in case, someday soon… John murmuring reassurances as his fingers worked, gauging the half-guarded, half-open look in Sherlock’s eyes, heavy lidded, the jut of his bottom lip just before he kissed him, feeling him relaxing under him.

Sherlock trusted John, trusted him with his life, and now trusted him at his most vulnerable, the thread of wariness he’d been holding on to dissolving under John’s words and caresses, growing more aroused, wanting to feel John inside of him, wanting to know what it was to consume and be consumed.

Sherlock closed his eyes, swore he could still see the flash of light imprinted on his retinas, though he doubted that could be true, but the acrid smoke lingered, and he would remember that smell always, associating it with heat and flames and John easing into him, causing his neck to arch back, a wordless “oh” forming in his mouth. He didn’t know, he didn’t know until now... but his body knew instinctively what to seek, knew what it wanted, and he let it rule over his brain that had shut down to nothing but a buzz, the ringing in his ears reduced to a low hum, and he thought of music, rhythm and tempo, _Larghissimo... Lento... Adagio..._

John was braced above him, drinking in every detail of Sherlock’s face as they moved, discovering how they fit together, trying not to rush but being swept along by a river of heat and small sounds, and, God, how good it felt… He pressed his mouth into a tight line in a bid for control, _not yet, not yet…_ and he heard their breaths mixing, growing faster, shorter, terser, and he thrust harder, clutching at Sherlock, heard his own groans, probably loud, he didn’t care, and the headboard -- the damn headboard slapping the wall could wake up the dead but that was just it -- they were burning and incandescent and _not dead._

He felt almost giddy, light-headed as he gazed at Sherlock, his blue eyes disappearing under his lashes, a flush slashed high across his cheekbones, his mouth slightly open, his pale chest rising and contracting; John could see him, feel him starting to come, was gripped with a spasm that set off his own surge of pleasure. John strained to hold on to that sensation just a second longer, the wave finally crashing over him, impossible to hold back, flooding his body, emptying his mind with a final thrust and a sigh that had its origins deep in his core. He lowered his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, breathless.

Sherlock sought out his mouth, laid his palm, still stinging, against John’s cheek, his thumb hooked under his jaw, tilting his head up to reach his lips, kissing him, softly, softly, expressing how grateful he was to be alive and in bed and in love with him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last entry for the trope challenge. If you feel inclined to share, I'd be curious to know which story was your favorite and why. Hope you enjoyed the ride! I did.


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